The Treatment by Mo Hayder Read Free Book Online Page A

coffee. Then he went to the window, his hands shaking.
    A number of windows in Brixton had a view directly over the park. Some belonged to the twin towers at the north, some to the half-built houses on the Clock Tower Grove Estate, and some, like Gummer's, belonged to the council flats above the row of shops on Effra Road. He opened the window and put his head out tentatively. Fromhere Donegal Crescent was almost a mile away and he couldn't see the police tape or the small gathering of journalists and onlookers at the Tulse Hill end of the park, but he did notice the quietness. On a summer's day like this the park was usually spotted with bright dresses and children, but today the great expanse of wood was silent, only the dull
click-click
of insects and the sound of a car radio coming from Effra Road. Beyond the treetops he got a glimpse, in the distance, of empty lawns stretching up to the top of the hill. He closed the window and drew the curtain.
    It took Carmel a long time to stop crying. Caffery and the WPC had exchanged one embarrassed glance, then gone back to staring at separate patches of wallpaper until the Ativan began to work, something softer crept through Carmel's veins and she stopped weeping. She reached over and patted the bed, feeling around for the Superkings. Slowly, falteringly, she lit a cigarette, pulled the ashtray toward her and began to speak. “Even though I told them all this already? In the ambulance?”
    “I'd like to hear it again. There might be something we missed.”
    But it amounted to little more than a rehashing of the statement she'd given the divisional CID officer. There were few new clues to hang on to. She recalled feeling unwell after eating dinner and that she had sent Rory downstairs to play on the PlayStation with Alek before going to the bedroom to lie down. She had been concerned because they were planning to drive to Margate the following day and she didn't want to be ill. That was all she remembered until she woke up in the airing cupboard. There had been no noises, no one suspicious in the neighborhood and, apart from the illness, nothing unusual about the few hours that led up to the attack. “We was supposed to be going on holiday the next day. That's why no one come for us. They must've thought we was away.”
    “You told the CID officer you heard something that sounded like an animal?”
    “Yes. Breathing. Sniffing. Outside of the cupboard.”
    “When was this?”
    “The first day, I think.”
    “How often did this happen?”
    “Just that once.”
    “Well, um, do you think there was an animal in the house? Do you think the intruder brought a dog with him?”
    She shook her head. “I never heard nothing else, no barking or nothing, and it weren't no dog. Not unless it was standing up on its, you know …” She tapped the backs of her calves. “Standing up on its back legs.”
    “What do you think it was?”
    “I don't know. I ain't never heard nothing like it.”
    “Did you hear Rory or Alek at all in that time?”
    “Rory.” She squeezed her eyes closed and nodded. “Crying. He was in the kitchen.”
    “When was this?”
    “Just before you lot come.” The words dragged a little jerk out of her as if the effort hurt her. She tamped out her cigarette, lit another from the carton and started to cough. It took her a long time to regain her composure. She wiped her eyes, then her mouth, pushed her hair out of her eyes and said, “There was something I never told them last night.”
    Caffery looked up from his notes. “I'm sorry?” The WPC was looking at him in surprise, her eyebrows raised. “What did you say?”
    “Something else.”
    “What was that?”
    “I think he took photographs.”
    “Photographs?”
    “I saw the flash going off under the cupboard door. I could even hear it winding on. I'm sure that's what it was—photographs.”
    “What do you think he was photographing?”
    “I don't know. I don't want to know.” She started to